


It's just a spark but it's enough to keep me going

by PocketPrompto



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Minor mention of Prompto and Noctis getting together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-11 23:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketPrompto/pseuds/PocketPrompto
Summary: Noctis recalls all the different ways he feels anxious as a soon to be King.





	It's just a spark but it's enough to keep me going

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea in my head and I couldn't let it go until I wrote it.

The thing about anxiety is that it’s always with you, clinging to your skin like clothes yet not so easily removable. If only it were as simple as a snake shedding its outer layers or a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, leaving behind the empty remains of what used to be, but it’s not. It follows you, everywhere you go. There’s days where it feels like he’s wearing his princely regalia, heavy and stiff and suffocating. Some days it’s just laid on thick like those old woolen winter coats Noctis’ father used to make him wear when he was younger to reduce the agitation on his scar while he played out in the Insomnian snow. Other days, it’s not so noticable, like his Crownsguard tank top that lets in every fresh breeze and every ray of sun and it’s almost as if he weren’t wearing a shirt at all.  _ Almost _ .

But most days, it’s like a t-shirt. Familiar. Snug but not uncomfortable. Casual, but not sloppy. Everyday wear, they call it. And everyday, Noctis starts with a t-shirt. And everyday, Noctis visits the closet of his mind, wondering what level of anxiety he’ll be wearing today. The thing is, he doesn’t always get to choose.

There will be days he dons his regalia because there are meetings he must attend. Meetings about the state of the Kingdom, meetings about Niflheim and daemons and his father’s deteriorating health, whether or not Noctis is ready to ascend the throne and commune with the Lucii. And all the while, Noctis is tugging at the fraying cuffs of his suit, listening to the jingling of the gold chains wrapped so tight around his torso that he can hardly breathe, vibrating along with the bouncing of his leg. His eyes dart left to right, watching council member after council member argue whether or not they believe the young Prince can control the wall because they know him  _ so _ well.

A hand on his shoulder makes him jump, but only slightly, not enough to disrupt the meeting but enough to jostle his thoughts back into place and focus on the talking rather than the ringing in his ears and the sweat starting to roll down his forehead and the base of his neck. 

The hand tightens and Noctis glances behind him at Ignis, whose face is passive but eyes are full of concern. And Noctis smiles, shakes his head, tunes in back to the meeting, and swallows his feelings.

Then, there are the days he can wear a tank top, days he’s training with Gladio in the lower levels of the citadel. These should be days where his anxiety is eating at him the most, knowing what he’s training for and why he needs to learn to fight but surprisingly enough, it’s here in the training halls where he feels the most relaxed.

He’s hot, sweaty, and his lungs feel like they might burst right out of his chest but he feels so  _ alive _ . Every hit he gets on Gladio, every swipe from a sword he manages to block or warp away from fills him with such accomplishment that for a couple hours every day he forgets about duty.

He forgets why he’s fighting, he forgets that there is a whole nation depending in him to take over and lead them to a better and peaceful world than the one they’re living in during his dad’s reign. He forgets about his injury, about his inability to protect himself, to protect his mother, his nanny, and everyone else who he’s felt he’s ever let down.

With every hit, he grows in strength and ability and his anxiety doesn’t show in those moments. Gladio never sees what Ignis does. No, Gladio sees Noctis warping around the training hall like a child unfit to lead men into battle and that only spurs Gladio on, forces him to work Noctis harder into the ground so that by the end of their training sessions Noctis is so bone-tired his brain can’t conjure up the energy to remind him why he’s fighting in the first place.

Some of the worst days are when he’s alone with his father, walking through the Citadel gardens wearing coats and scarves and boots thick enough the cold can’t even attempt to penetrate. The air bites at his nose, turning pale flesh red, but he still manages to sweat underneath the layers, hands held loosely at his side, ready to reach out and grab his father, should his knee give out or his cane skid against the gathering ice on the marble walkways.

It’s these days Noctis hates the most because every winter he can see his dad grow frail and weak, no longer able to throw snowballs or make snow angels. And their walks get shorter every time, with Regis having to retire due to the ache in his knees or his brace freezing over and the joints locking in place. And when they go back inside to his father’s rooms, Noctis knows to expect that dreaded talk.

_ “ _ I’m afraid it’s getting harder for me to move about these days, my boy. I need to know how your training and education is coming along. Are you ready to take my place, should the need arise?”

Noctis nods his head solemnly every time. He used to cry, he used to pound his fists on the carpet and yell about how it was all unfair but over the years he’s learned to swallow his hesitations. Instead, his heart races and his palms sweat, but he takes on every duty as seriously as he can. Though he acts aloof to everyone around him, it’s the only way he can calm the storm that builds inside him every time another royal duty is tacked onto his back.

But, Noctis’ favorite days? Those are the days he gets to wear his t-shirts. The days Prompto comes over to play video games and eat junk food and rib him about his shitty math exam scores. And the anxiety is there, but it’s not about his royalty and it’s not about his duties. No, it’s about things like if he’s going to graduate high school with Prompto, or if he’ll be held back because  _ princes don’t need math, Ignis _ , and it’s about silly crushes and whether or not Prompto likes him back, and all the things that normal teenage boys should be worrying about.

Because Noctis is not a normal teenage boy, no matter how much he wishes he were. Some nights, after a late night bender, Noctis would stare at glow in the dark stars on his ceiling and ask Prompto what kind of things made him anxious.

“Uh, everything, dude.” Prompto would say and spread his arms wide and Noctis would  _ tch _ and shove playfully at his side and ask him to elaborate.

“I mean, graduation is up there. I know my grades are okay, but are they okay enough to get into a good University? And then there’s the fact that I need to get a job, pay rent, make a career. I like photography but I don’t know if that’s where the money is at. Maybe I can be a chocobo rancher instead.”

And Prompto would laugh and Noctis would laugh, and Prompto would ask what Noctis was anxious about and Noctis would say  _ same as you _ . But Prompto knew better than to call out that bullshit. He knew Noctis was carrying the weight of being King on his very small shoulders and he also knew that Noctis didn’t like to talk about his duties that much around Prompto. He wanted to be normal, and Prompto knew that feeling all too well, so instead he picks up a pillow and he smacks Noctis with it. The room erupts into laughter and play wrestling and accidental kissing and mutual confessions of love, and the two can forget about everything for just a little while longer.

For that, Noctis is grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://pocket-prompto.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Or on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/pocketprompto)


End file.
